


Worst for my Sanity

by Zaritian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adaptation, Let's Write Sherlock, M/M, Poetry, let's draw sherlock, spoken word poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaritian/pseuds/Zaritian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A poetic statement from John Watson to Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>A personal love letter from the perspective of John as he contemplates what it is that draws him to Sherlock.</p><p>Adapted from the spoken word poet Sarah Kay’s piece "Worst Poetry"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worst for my Sanity

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Worst Poetry](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/20843) by Sarah Kay. 



> I was inspired to write this by the Let’s Draw Sherlock Challenge on tumblr. Which you can find at http://letsdrawsherlock.tumblr.com/
> 
> I adapted it from the spoken word poet Sarah Kay’s piece "Worst Poetry" which is a wonderful piece she wrote and performed at the Bowery Poetry Club--- and it is one of my favorites.
> 
> You can find it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_XSaIKpmLk
> 
> \---I recommend that everyone listen to her piece "Worst Poetry" before they read my piece. It has about the same tempo in my head, so it will give you the right sense of meter. 
> 
> I definitely broke the rules of the competition and I can't submit it because Sarah Kay is modern and she’s not mainstream famous--- but she’s well known on the poetry scene! So I decided that rules are meant to be broken sometimes and went with my inspiration anyway. 
> 
> \--- Enjoy!

Without question you are the worst thing that ever happened to my sanity

I’m serious. I’ve heard about psychosomatic trauma, but this- is ridiculous. My temper has been flaring up more often than you have been setting things on fire, and leaving body parts lying around the bloody flat---like  when I found that brain on the counter, and its grey matter was draining all over the floor! I had to spend two hours cleaning it up and--- shit! See what I mean?

I’ve been worrying far too much about your cases instead of worrying about my problems--- and I think people might be starting to wonder about us. ---How many times do I have to tell people I’m not actually gay? And no, I’m not “just bi” so don’t try to tell me what I am. I can be whatever I like. Or at least I _could_ , when I would sit at home and wallow in the time I had: when I only thought of me being by myself. --- But now I can’t! Because I can’t stop thinking of your case! Or perhaps thinking about your face? Smiling at me, talking about _our_ case- And suddenly I realize I’m no longer without company.

Because I used to think I was living only with my thoughts. I wasn’t ever lost or distraught like I am now--- See, the “me” back then waited for my life to end slowly, as I scared off friends with biting wit and sarcasm to still be left waiting. Waiting. Waiting to die--- But I can’t do that anymore!!!

You know why? Because I’m no longer bitter! I’m no longer dwelling on the war! I’m no longer crying on the floor because you’ve got me off the floor and on your case--- and I mean about your job and about your habits. As I sit here, not worrying about my pain but wondering what will get you first: a smoking gun? Or a smoking pipe? And I just want you to stop. And, and, and… No, this all should stop!

I’m not your keeper! You shouldn’t have to withstand my abuse as I threaten to leave your side, leave you behind. You try to tell me, “Please, come with me and you’ll find it’s what you wanted all along.” And I want to leave you with just your pleases and your promises but I can’t do that.

I refuse to let the stress you put me under push me aside. I refuse to hide from your words which will surely lead to the headlines: “John Watson Died. This day. 30-some years old. No life. One friend. Cause of death: Homocide” Because as much as that thought makes my insides turn to mush, I am much more scared to see the plot that will truly kill me--- The breaking story that will break me down and leave me to rot: that you were the one who died. Who was killed. Who was taken from me. Because the people can have their news, the gossips can have their truths --- they can try to connect the dots into a picture of us. They’ll “figure out” what was really going on between us, and I don’t care, they can have that. Just as long as I can have you.

And this game has to end now! Because speaking like I care for you more than you care for me is just lies. I know it. You know it. They all know it. So don’t hide that you care about my sanity because perjury is a crime. A crime which rhymes with surgery. Which, incidentally I will need for my brain before you’re done. Because it’s always in pain when it thinks of you trying to outdo my wits with your mental tricks, and even more so when it pictures you lying on the ground, dead.  Because if that day should come, no surgery will fix my heart.

I would rather that you outdo my expectations daily. To be able to listen to your thoughts while we sit: Side by side, hand in hand, head on shoulder. No company in the world but each other and a skull on the kitchen table, just us together.  Laughing.

I try to worry about my traumas- try to fix them like I was told, and the only thing I can think about is you. And I don’t understand why you’re the worst thing that ever happened to my sanity, if you’re the best that ever happened to me.


End file.
